


Miscommunication

by zoldyckstripshow



Series: Death Note Drabbles [2]
Category: Death Note
Genre: AU, Drabble, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4808846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoldyckstripshow/pseuds/zoldyckstripshow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There may have been a miscommunication with the decorator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miscommunication

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of [this](http://seraphicsunshine.tumblr.com/post/129130913049/othilaodal-next-death-note-adaptation) post that's been circulating around. I saw it, and obviously had to do something with it.

A musical bell chimed as Mello swept the door open, pushing his sunglasses (Prada, Summer 2016) into his hair to see properly. The shop was dimly lit with twinkling Christmas lights and a warm chandelier. The inviting smell of pastries wafted around him; he’d never had a fondness for cakes and bread, but it was enticing nonetheless.

Mello wasn’t here for himself, though.  

A chipper-looking girl with bubblegum pink curls floating around her head smiled at him. Her nametag read Annie. A fitting name for a pastry chef.

“Hi, there! Can I help you with something?” Her voice bordered on obnoxiously cheery, but Mello waved his short temper away. He could be pissy some other time.

“I need to order a birthday cake.”

Her face lit up, and she pulled out a heavy binder with what he presumed were examples. “Okay! You can flip through this and find one you might like –”

“No, it’s okay, I already know.” Mello was nothing if not prepared. “Ice cream cake, cookies and cream, with vanilla cake, chocolate frosting and yellow accents. And sprinkles. A ton of sprinkles.” The color scheme came from some sort of Japanese cartoon animal; supposedly, it was an electric mouse? Mello didn’t know and he wasn’t too keen on searching for it online. Anything Matt was interested in, Mello was wary of.

Annie jotted down some notes. “What do you want the message to say?”

“Happy birthday, dick,” Mello said wryly and without thinking. He laughed to himself. “Don’t write that, his name is Matt.”

She wrote a few more things on her notepad. “All-righty, your total, including the word count is…” Her fingers tapped the register. “Thirty-three fifty-two.”

Mello handed her his card. The counter was filled with smaller candies, like lollipops and gum. He spotted a section of chocolate bars out of the corner of his eye. “Wait, hang on,” Mello slid the entire case of bars over to her. “These, too.”

/

February 1st rolled around a few days later. Mello was hastily taping festive decorations to the walls of their modest apartment, having woken up later than planned. It was a good thing Matt’s job had called him out for overtime.

Mello stood back to survey his work. Streamers? Check. Loud thumping noises Matt referred to as “house” music? Unfortunately, check. Cake?

He glanced at the clock. Matt wasn’t due home for another hour, so he grabbed his jacket and headed out.

/

“Are you sure you don’t want to check it and make sure everything’s perfect?” Annie’s wide blue eyes bore into his – admittedly impatient – soul.

He waved his hand around dismissively. “I’m sure it’s fine. Thank you,” Mello heard the chime of the door’s bell as he left, clutching the cakebox.

Getting home without bumping into anyone or tripping on the messy street construction would be a challenge. Mello arranged his facial expression to be as frightening as he could possibly manage, subtly willing a murderous aura to radiate from his body. It had the desired effect; people scurried out of his way on the busy streets, even bumping into each other to avoid him. The scar probably had a lot to do with it. He looked like he was a Mafioso carrying a bomb.

Mello smirked. The mafia never sent bombs in boxes; it was more of a bag thing.

By the time he arrived home, there was only a few minutes left until Matt joined him. Mello grabbed some paper plates from a cupboard and opened the box to see how many slices they’d get out of it.

He paused.

A violent flush colored his cheeks, and his stomach flipped.

“Shit.” There was definitely not enough time to fix it – a beep from outside signaled Matt’s arrival in his pristine Camaro, early, in all likelihood, due to his bad habit of running red lights. Why did they _both_ have to be natural-born criminals?

Mello slapped a hand on his forehead in exasperation. He’d tried his best to do something selfless and, dare he say it, _sweet_ , and it turned into something much more typical of their day-to-day vernacular. Would that spoil the mood? He hoped not.

He could smell Matt before he saw him; smoke, traces of Old Spice, and what was probably ramen from a rushed lunch break.

“Honey, I’m. Home?” Matt’s normally dry voice flicked up at the end in question. He’d seen the streamers, and was probably wondering why Mello would ever listen to this Eurotrash music.

He wouldn’t.

But that wasn’t the point.

“Ah, happy birthday, man.” Mello poked his head out into the living room, offering a rare smile. Matt’s eyes lit up behind his goggles. Mello could always tell, because his cheeks would squish up and his nose would wrinkle as he smiled with his eyes. Tyra Banks had a word for that, but it escaped him, at this particular moment.

“Oh, no way! I thought we missed rent or something, and this was the landlord’s sick idea of an eviction notice.”

“It’s pretty sick though, isn’t it?”

“Dude, don’t try. It hurts.”

Mello rolled his eyes and returned to the kitchen. He knew he wasn’t really cut out for Matt’s laid back style of talking; his own sentences were often short, concise, and decidedly serious, with bits of sarcastic humor thrown in for good measure. Matt was slower and more friendly, and he had a history with raves, skating, and other “fun” teenage things, so his language was tinted with a youthful flair. Mello sort of envied him. He’d have preferred skateboarding at two in the morning to assassinating drug addicts who were late on their payments, but hey, it was all in the past.

“So, I got you a cake.” Mello said. He wasn’t sure where to go from here, so he just held out the box. Matt stared at him.

“You got me a cake?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I never forget your birthday.” Mello leaned back on the counter, crossing his arms.

“Well, _yeah_ , but you’ve never gotten me a cake before. You always get me something I actually _need_ , like socks, laundry detergent, or a gift card to GameStop.”

“Hm,” Mello mused in reply. It was true. He was awful with presents.

“What flavor is it?” Matt fumbled with the box a little, his thick gloves making it difficult to open.

“Cookies and cream.”

“Sweet!”

“And. Uh,” Mello began, but it was too late. The box lid flipped to the side and Matt’s eyes scanned the cake. There was an awkward silence as the house music continued playing and they both stood there, Mello fidgeting with his cross and Matt adjusting his goggles with one hand.

“There may have been a miscommunication with the decorator.”

“I love you so fuckin’ much, bro.”


End file.
